


Hyacinth

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, brief mentions of self harm, fluff mostly i guess, how do tag, i dunno, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:20:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre knows when Jehan's moods strike. It's usually autumn and winter, especially when the weather's cold and grey, and everything in the Musain is that little bit quieter. And Combeferre, unlike the others, knows how to deal with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hyacinth

Combeferre knows when Jehan's moods strike. It's usually autumn and winter, especially when the weather's cold and grey, and everything in the Musain is that little bit quieter. And Combeferre, unlike the others, knows how to deal with them. In order to deal with them, you don't deal with them.

   "You know how he is, E, he just gets like this sometimes. You just have to let him. He'll be fine in a day or two."

   "I know he's a poet and all, and poets are supposed to be depressed, but we have a rally next week and I need him, he's one of the best at this kind of thing."

   "I'll talk to him tomorrow, but for now just let him be, ok?"

   "OK. You know I'm not trying to be insensitive, right, 'Ferre? I'm just worried about the rally. I do care about Jehan..."

   "I know. And Jehan knows. I think Courf wanted to go through some stuff with you, go sort that out. Jehan will be fine." 

 

The rain always makes Jehan's melancholy worse. He used to love the rain, used to love the way it adorned the leaves and make cobwebs into crystals, the way it made everyting new and bright. But now it was just grey. He scratches at his wrists- a habit he stopped when he was seventeen because Courfeyrac had worried, but now the weather is cold enough for long sleeves again he sees little point in avoiding it. He doesn't have a blade, so he just keeps scratching with his nails. He scribbles a few lines in his notebook, then tears the page out and screws it up. Nothing's working.

   "Jehan?" Combeferre sits down opposite him at the table, "Want to talk?" 

   "I killed a spider today. I didn't mean to. But it was on my desk and I didn't see it until it was too late and I put a mug on top of it. It took too long to die, but I couldn't do anything about it. I just watched as..." he trails off. "Sorry."

Combeferre shakes his head. "Have you tried writing about that? It seems interesting. I'm no expert on poetry, but there could be something in that story."

   "Can't write today. Nothing works." Jehan wouldn't normally be so open, but he trusts Combeferre. They've known each other long enough, and Combeferre was the only one to ever really understand the way his melancholy worked.

Combeferre is silent, chewing his bottom lip slightly. Normally when Jehan's moods hit he writes with fervour, the depression becoming passion and envy and the silent stillness of an extinguished candle on his page. If he can't write... 

   "How long have you felt like this?"

   "Two days."

Two days is all these moods normally last. Combeferre is worried now, though. Something's different.

Jehan doens't say anything more. He tugs his sleeves over his wrists and hands, and stares out the window. It's getting dark out, the streetlights doing little to illuminate the foggy streets, a painful silence he can almost see. He can still see the last death throes of the spider at the back of his mind, imagining himself in the spider's place, shutting his eyes for the last time, imagining what he'd say in his final breaths. Would the others weep for him? Probably, he decides. He looks down at his hands, then Combeferre's hands- he watches without really paying attention to what he's drawing. When he lets his eyes focus, Combeferre is sketching a rough but suprisingly accurate hyacinth. Combeferre looks up he notices Jehan watching.

   "R taught me to draw a little so that I could sketch diagrams better- it kind of turned into a hobby. I mean, this isn't great, but-"

   "You're better than you think."

   "Well so are you. I know you can't write at the moment, but it'll come back to you, I promise." Combeferre doesn't know if he's said the right thing, but Jehan's small smile reassures him. 

 

They sit in silence for a while longer, Jehan scribbling lines of poetry- not his own, he still can't, but quotes from Keats and Wilde and Yeats- in his notebook, and Combeferre decorates them with flowers and leaves and occaisionally, at Jehan's request, animal skulls. The rain's stopped by now, and the others have left the Musain. Combeferre sends a quick text to Enjolras to say he'll be late back, and, when Jehan loks nervously up at him, he takes the other man's hand and squeezes reassuringly.


End file.
